


Twenty-Nine Hour Flu

by Oparu



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-07
Updated: 2010-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 19:05:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oparu/pseuds/Oparu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluff.  Helen abuses her immune system with H1N1 to make a vaccine.  Will realises there are some things she just hasn't gotten around to yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-Nine Hour Flu

_Hour 1_

She's pulling the needle from her arm when Will walks into her office. Will's undoubtedly quizzical look must give away his concern.

"Please tell me no beetles this time," he quips, sliding into his chair.

Helen sets it on her desk, wraps it in a tissue and smiles. "Will," she says cheerfully. "I hope your day was productive?" The smile barely reaches her eyes, and he smiles back warmly, immediately aware of her dark mood. Her grief for Ashley is omnipresent and she continues as best she can. He collects moments where her shields are down and tries not to worry.

"That pack of _Oricheun Milaneous_ will not be troubling the California coastline any time soon," he sighs, sinking further into the warm leather. "You were definitely right about the spines. They were massive," he reports as he stares at her arm.

"Something on your mind?" she asks, lifting the neatly wrapped package to drop it into the disposal.

"Are you all right?" he asks, leaning across the desk. "Side effects of letting a beetle into your brain?"

Helen touches his face, brushing dried salt from his skin before sitting on the edge of her desk. "Seems like you had a good time in the surf," she observes before she answers the question. "It's a concentrated dose of the H1N1 virus."

He's tired from his trip and Will nods before he registers what he's heard. "That doesn't seem to be the most logical health choice."

"My enhanced immune system is one of the better parts of my abnormality to be sure," Helen's smile finally creeps into her eyes. "I would normally not even require a vaccine, however, in this case my exposure is not for my own health."

"I just saw an ad for the vaccine on the TV in the plane," Will says, thoroughly confused.

"I'm quite confidant the commercial vaccine works wonders for ordinary humans however, the mutagenic compounds used to stabilise the virus are incredibly toxic to many Abnormals. Normally, I would simply expose the virus to a sample of my own blood or let synthetic white blood cells, cloned from my own, form anti-bodies to use as a template for the vaccine." She finishes with a small sigh, reaching for her tea cup.

When she lifts it, Will can see it's empty and wonders how long she's been here working on this particular crisis. There are moments when he has to remind himself of her humanity. Seeing her lose herself when she wanted to bring down Emma surprised and terrified them all. For all her wisdom, Helen puts little stock in how much she means to her family. "I'm sensing a 'however'," he says, raising an eyebrow.

"There have been a number of cases reported worldwide, particularly in Mexico and South America. Many more cases then I would ever expect to see, given the genetic variation of Abnormals and the usually strong nature of their own immune response," her smile returns but her lips are pursed tightly in frustration.

"And you've injected yourself with the virus in order to provoke a faster immune response and potentially save hundreds of lives," he finishes for her. He nods towards the teapot. "Let me know if you need any help extracting the vaccine from your blood. If you'll be awhile, I can fetch you more tea."  


* * *

_Hour 3_  
She sneezes at the staff meeting. The first time she seems as surprised as the rest of them, and the second time Will hands her a tissue. He hovers, even though he can see by the set of her jaw that she knows, but he can't help it. Kate and Henry file out, Will watches her elbow him and notes that they're continuing to get along. Perhaps it'll be a quiet week.

He touches Helen's shoulder and winces when she sneezes again.

"Pardon me," Helen offers, accepting another tissue.

"Gesundheit," he wishes her, amused by her wry smile.

"I do appreciate the sentiment," she says, heading for her office. Will starts to follow her out of habit and she stops, hand on the bridge of her nose. The pain in that gesture is so rare for her that he winces with her. He hasn't seen her in physical pain since they were both trapped in the _Nautilus_. "Would you mind procuring me an analgesic? The most basic will do. I wouldn't trouble you, but I don't have anything in my office."

"And you'd like to continue to work. So, ibuprofen," Will offers with a nod. "More tea?"

"That would be lovely." Her hand leaves her face and touches his shoulder. "Will--"

"I had my shots," he assures her. "Flu, hepatitis, dengue- I've had everything you could think of giving me. You caught me with H1N1 last week. Remember?"

"Indeed, forgive me," Helen sighs again. "I seem to have misunderstood the true virulence of this pathogen. I fear the dose of this particular virus may have been more than I truly required."

When he returns with a few ibuprofen and a fresh pot of tea, lemon ginger instead of her usual blend, she's bent over a computer, fingers making circles on her temples. He can see discomfort and exhaustion bordering on pain.

"Should I rent you some movies?" Will jokes, watching her force her eyes open and rub her temples as she looks up from her work. "Just in case you spend some time in bed?"

"The last time I was ill, James spent the time reading to me," she answers, swallowing three of the pills in quick succession.

Moving her papers out of the way, he perches on the desk. He would have loved the opportunity to know Doctor Watson better and he knows she still misses him. James is one more person she's outlived. "Let me guess, he choose the journals of exobiology?"

"Agatha Christie," she answers, sneezing again. He can almost hear the pressure in her skull in her tone. "James always loved a good mystery. He used to mimic all the voices. Even did a passable Belgian accent when necessary."

"When was that?" he asks, reaching for a loose book and noticing the flush of her skin.

"Twenty-four years ago," Helen says softly. The pain flashes through her eyes before she buries it back down. "The reintegration of Ashley as a fetus into my body was fairly trying. I believe stress may have been a factor," she explains, neatly forcing her emotions down. "The hormone cocktail alone nearly forced me to change my mind."

She's trying to make her tone light, but he can't imagine the risk she took. Holding an embryo in stasis for over a century only to bring it to term, alone. Circling the desk, he touches her shoulder. The moment of silence drags past and Will doesn't know what to say. Ashley is a hole in the Sanctuary they all feel, and he can't fathom how hard it must be for Helen.

"Ashley loved you very much," he reminds her. "You were her mother, her teacher, and someone she deeply admired." To his surprise, her hand covers his and her fingers are hot. Helen continues to look down at her work, but he appreciates the attempt at connection.

"Need anything else?" he asks. Her half-smile in response suggests that she knows he's diagnosing her by one symptom at a time but Will can feel the heat of her body radiate through her blouse.

When he moves his hand, Helen stands and pulls on her cardigan. Wrapping it tightly across her chest, she meets his eyes. "You may take my temperature if you wish," she offers wryly. "I assure you that my febrile state is still only a minor inconvenience."

He slides off the desk and they share a look. She seems tired. The knitting of her eyebrows seems more pronounced and he can almost feel her discomfort radiate from her posture. Leaving her to her work, he returns to the door. "I'll raid my DVD collection, just in case."  


* * *

_Hour 6_  
She skips lunch, claiming she has no interest. He believes her, flu frequently destroys the appetite, but Will made an effort to convince her to eat her soup. Since the Big Guy is obeying orders and staying clear until Helen's certain she's not contagious to other Abnormals, Will's picking up his duties. Which lets him keep an eye on Helen, even though she continues to accuse him of hovering, he feels better when he sees her frequently.

Her tray is in the hall, and Will passes it down to the Big Guy before he ventures into her office. The spoon is dirty, so she did make an effort, though most of it is untouched. When he passes her door, he can hear her coughing. It rattles her chest and Helen's gasp of air so she can continue makes his lips twist.

"I want you to be aware that I did make the attempt to eat," she protests as he takes the computer from her hands. "I also wish to reiterate that your hovering is unnecessary." He rests his hand against her forehead, watches as she rolls her eyes, and guesses her temperature is nearing 38 degrees.

"You're done working," Will orders, earning a tiny smile from Helen.

"Which protocol can you cite that allows you to issue such a command?" she teases. At first refusing to move, then when he insists by leaning over her, she relents and reluctantly allowing him to help her up from her chair.

He pauses, a hand still on each of her elbows. "Protocol zeta-two-seven-nine-nine-tango."

"Is that some type of video game manoeuvre?"

"I was never any good at those kind of games," he retorts as she starts to cough. Her head ends up resting against his chest, which is an odd sensation, and he rubs her arms slowly. Her skin is warm even through her blouse and lab coat. "Though, I'm excellent at Tetris," he adds, trying to lighten the mood. "Is there a protocol I need to cite to take you to bed?"

Her laugh ends in a chuckle, nearly girlish enough to be qualifed as a giggle. Keeping hold of her arm, Will shakes his head, aware of the innuendo present. It's been happening more often that they tread across an invisible line and he'll forget who she is; why he shouldn't be acutely aware how beautiful she is.

"I'm afraid I haven't yet had the thought to issue fraternization protocols," she taunts him. "Something I should have had the presence of mind to rectify before I placed myself in such a vulnerable state." She winks at him before she can't look up through another coughing fit. He has to tap the button in the elevator. He's never been in her bedroom. Passing onward through her private drawing room is something he really never imagined doing, but she doesn't ask him to stop.  


* * *

_Hour 9_   
She drifts in and out of sleep while he reads from "The Fellowship of the Ring." Will's positive he can't do voices as well as Watson, but Helen assures him the quality of the performance isn't half as important as the heart behind it. Her eyes hurt, and though she tried both to read and work on her computer, Tolkien ends up being the only distraction she has the energy for.

She's quiet except for painful bouts of coughing. Once or twice, he stops reading and sits up, as if he could help her, but Helen always waves him away. Whenever her eyes stay closed for more than a few minutes, he picks up his cases. A meter away, Helen sleeps fitfully, curled on her side while he reads through his research.

He's halfway through a twenty-eight page report on whether or not bipolar-disorder can effect reptilian Abnormals when he realises she's been watching him. Her eyes are foggy, her head rests carefully on her pillow and she smiles at him gently.

"What happened in Moria?" she asks, eyes blinking slowly as she focuses. Helen closes her eyes again, apologising for her demand. "I am sorry to take you away from your research, Will. I'm sure whatever happened to the Hobbins-"

"Hobbits," he corrects with a smile while he waits for her to stop coughing. Her hand falters on the way to her tea and he grabs it for her. She doesn't fight him this time and he wonders if she's feeling worse. "I still can't believe you never found time to read this," Will mutters in disbelief, fingering his worn copy of 'the Fellowship of the Ring'. "You do know this is one of the finest pieces of literature to come out of England after the Bard."

"Reading books about fantastic creatures was always too much like my professional life to be of any interest in my free time," she manages to quip before she's taken back by another fit of coughing that racks her chest and steals her breath.

Leaning forward in his chair, he uses the tissue he's been holding to wipe tears from her face.

"Hence you and Watson sharing the the whodunnits?" he asks, dropping the wet tissues and grabbing another handful when the tears refuse to abate when her breath returns.

"Actually," she begins, wincing a final time before she rests back into her carved wooden bed and the generous pile of blankets. "James was the one who loved mysteries. I've always enjoyed adventure stories. The more daring and dangerous, the better. If I had known how positively Abnormals were portrayed in this 'Lord of the Rings' I certainly would have found the time."

She rubs the front of her throat and he stands from his chair to again grab her tea. Her hands are hot when their fingers touch, and he guesses her fever must still be hovering near 39. "Let me take your temperature while you drink this," he requests.

"When I was a child," she rambles, "we were still using mercury thermometers."

He carefully sticks a one-time use thermometer to her hot, dry forehead. Still marvelling at the length of her memory, Will watches Helen relax minutely. "Your father hadn't invented something better?" he taunts her as he peels off the sticker.

Her temperature's still high, 39.1, and Will can't help wondering if it'll go higher. She's allowed him access to her medical records and even with them, he can't make head or tails of just how her immune system functions.

She takes two long sips of her tea before she answers the question. Sitting up to drink seems to have exhausted her. "My father said they were perfectly useful, as long as they remained intact." Helen's eyes drift to the dog-eared book on the dresser near his chair where he left it. "I believe the last time I was truly ill, they were still in use."

Following her gaze to the book makes him chuckle and he lifts it up. "Should I continue?"

"Please."

With the blanket pulled up to her chin and the teacup clutched in both hands, Will can't help picturing her as a little girl, a century and a half ago, listening to her father read aloud from some mysterious tale of adventure. He clears his throat and begins to read again.  


* * *

_Hour 15_  
"Will," her voice is so abused from coughing that it's nearly a croak.

He pauses, setting down his leather bound book and reaching for his cup of coffee. It's gotten cold but it's still coffee. "Are you all right?"

She waves her hand, pulling herself up so she can get a better look at him. She coughs, clearing her throat, losing control for a moment, and then finally smiles up at him indulgently. "Forgive the interruption, I wanted to inquire as to why the voice of the character Gandalf sounds like a rough approximation of my accent."

"I wasn't aware that he did," Will answers, grinning at her over his coffee.

"I believe he sounds rather like me, whilst Merry and Pippin sound remarkably more like Henry when he's excited and the ranger, Strider, seems to resemble my butler."

"I can stop doing the voices," he offers, refilling his coffee from the insulated pot the Big Guy was kind enough to bring up.

"I find them most enjoyable," she says reaching for her tea. Will leaves his chair and again puts the cup in her hand from the table. Her skin is still hot and after he feels her forehead, she holds the back of his hand against her cheek as if stealing the cooler temperature of his skin. "I also appreciate the singing and I must admit I have been wondering if the musical score is included in the pages of the novel or if the melodies are of your own design."

"The melodies are mostly a collaboration of several people, some from the movies," he admits sheepishly. Her hand flops onto his lap before Will realises he's sitting on the edge of the bed.

"How do you determine when I've fallen asleep?" Helen asks, lazily running her hand over the jeans covering his knee.

"I make faces," he deadpans. "If you don't chastise me, you're sleeping. Though, the way your eyes are watering certainly isn't making that definitive. How are your sinuses?" he wonders. At first, Will worries that the frown that follows is her resistance to being coddled by a less experienced doctor, then he realises it's an expression of her discomfort.

"Perfectly dreadful," she reports with a kind of deadpan seriousness that makes him wish he could take the pain away. Will rubs the center of her forehead, making slow circles with his thumbs. Her eyes close and her half-smile urges him to continue.

"Now who am I reminding you of?" Will asks lightly. He always seems to be playing a role from her past, reminding her of a moment years ago.

Her hand squeezes his knee and she pulls her head away, blue eyes soft and surprisingly vulnerable. "My father," she murmurs. Will can't help feeling that he should be able to protect her; ease the old pain behind her smile. Helen curls back up under the blankets, rubbing her eyes with a tissue before she allows him to take it and throw it away. He's not sure about being compared to her father but her vulnerability gnaws at him. Her father and Ashley are both people she's had to bury and he's starting to understand just how much she's lost. It must be a lonely, devastating existence.

"Forgive the interruption," her voice is steady again and her smile is sincere, "please continue."  


* * *

_Hour 18_  
"How was your shower?" she asks over her broth. "Get behind your ears?"

"Yes," Will retorts cheerfully. "It's so hard to dry them though. No matter what I do, it's always still wet behind them."

"How trying for you," she coughs, trying to put the tray aside and lie back down.

"Nuh-uhn," he shakes his head and stands, arms crossed, to look over her in bed. Her hair's down and tousled from the bed. If her eyes weren't swollen and her colouring was better, it would be almost suggestive. Will has to force that thought out of his mind.

"You need to eat that," he points at the bowl full of broth, "or drink all of your tea before you have enough liquids in you that I can spin out your plasma like you asked."

Helen rolls her eyes and pulls the tray back into her lap. "Using my own orders against me is hardly fair play," she threatens him by shaking the spoon.

Will pulls his robe on tighter over his pajamas. This time he sits on the bed without invitation and she pulls her feet out of the way to make room.

"Why is it whenever one is supposed to eat, all food tastes dreadful, but when one is eating for pleasure or out of boredom the simplest thing can taste incredible?" she demands.

Looking over the plasma transfuser, he rubs the back of his head thoughtfully. His hair is still damp and he can feel it squeak between his fingers. "Are you sure you don't want to do this down in one of the labs?"

Catching the tray before her coughing fit spills it all over the bed, Will nods in answer to his own question. "Right. Never mind." Hauling her down to the lab just seems cruel.

He sets the tray aside, holding her tea cup until he thinks she can drink without spilling it. For the first time, Will's hands have to guide hers as she sips the warm liquid. He wonders if the weakness frustrates her as much as it surprises him.

"What was-" she chokes and he waits. Will takes the cup back, holding her shoulder until she has breath to finish.

"-your antigen level?" Will finishes for her.

Helen nods, all business even though he's worried about how much her chest must hurt. There's pain in the lines around her eyes and the forced set of her lips.

"Four hundred seventeen," he answers, stoking her hair. His hand is down far enough so that he feels her shoulder and the muscles of her back. It's too close, but it seems to help her focus. "High enough to spin. I'd just rather you had enough fluids so that I get blood instead of sludge when I try to draw your plasma."

Helen nods, reaching for her tea. "I shall endeavour to finish."

"Keep calm, carry on," he teases her to earn the raised eyebrow. Even exhausted, she can still make him laugh.  


* * *

_Hour 23_  
Though he didn't intend to sleep, at some point, he'd curled up in the chair next to Helen's bed, book falling from his lap, and fallen asleep. Will's dreams wandered as he walked through his old dorm, then slipped into a dreamlike view of the police station where he'd worked.

He finally ends up in the morgue, staring down at the steel table. The sheet covers the obviously female form. Will starts to reach for it. He was meant to do the autopsy, explain how this poor women met her end.

As he reaches for the head of the sheet, it starts to scream.

"Ashley!"

Will jolts awake, heart racing as he realises where he is and who's crying out. What was screaming through his dream is in reality only muttering, a series of disconnected words that occasionally contain Ashley's name. His mind must have elevated her perceived distress to pull him out.

When he reaches for her arms, Helen rolls away from him, an arm covering her face. Her words make little sense, more babble than speech. He reaches for her hand, but she rolls into him, grabbing his arm and taking his balance with her. The force of Helen's desperate grip drags him nearly into the bed on top of her.

"It's all right," Will repeats, bracing himself with his free arm to stay out of the bed. Spending a moment wondering if he should assure her that Ashley's at peace, he jumps when she opened her eyes.

Nearly pulling himself off the bed, Will gasps when she wraps her hand around the back of his neck.

"Will."

"Hi," he nods, trying not to wince from the way her fingers dug into his flesh. He didn't expect her to seek his touch, even when near-delirious. "You okay?"

"I feel like I went bare-knuckle boxing with a Ghanian razor cat," she answers, blinking at him until her eyes manage to focus. There are tears in her eyes again and he can't let himself wipe them. Once again, that's too intimate. "Everything aches or stings," she complains. "Even the inside of my head."

"What should I do?" Will reaches for her face to steady it and she lets him hold her cheek.

"I don't require anything," she answers softly and the fear fades from her face.

Will watches her force it away. "I had nightmares almost every night before I moved here," he offers, wondering if she'll take the bait and tell him what hers was about.

Rolling her head away, Helen leaves her hand on his arm. Her fingers are tight. "Sleep is not always pleasant for me," she replies with her usual evasiveness.

"And you're ill," he reminds her, giving her the out if she wants it.

Gliding back to his neck, her hand nearly burns. "I'm afraid this time my illness dulled a dream that would have been much more painful were I not partially delirious."

"There's still hope for true delirium," he reminds her, giving her his hand to cling to instead of his neck. He's in her bed again, and this time close enough to see the way her chest slows when she's trying not to cry. She allowed herself to cry for awhile, in the aftermath of Ashley's death. Now she seems to feel she's outside what is allowed and her tears have stopped. Her grief clings to her like a new note of her perfume.

"I've suffered from my share of delirium," she evades, closing her eyes. "You don't have to watch me sleep."

"First, I was catching up on the last three journals of psychology," Will protests, keeping a lazy smile because he knows she doesn't want to be alone and she'll . "Then I was watching you sleep."

"You need hobbies," she suggests, her lips tight as she keeps herself from tears. He rests his hand on her cheek, cooling the skin there. Will knows she won't tell him what she saw in her dream. The fact that she's admitting to having a nightmare at all is further than he thought they'd be.

Will waits for her hand to relax before he removes it from his neck. She doesn't understand how her vulnerability undermines all of them. He's not just watching her for him, but for Henry, the Big Guy, and even Kate. They all depend on her and her weakness, even if it's just an illness, shakes their world.

Running his hand slowly down her arm, he watches her eyes close. "Did you know it would be this bad?"

"Mmm?"

Thinking her asleep, Will starts to slip from the bed but her eyes snap open.

"No," she answers quickly.

He tries to place her answer. "No, it wouldn't be this bad?"

"Please don't go," she whispers, holding tight to his wrist. Startled, he stares at his hand as Helen holds him. "I--" she swallows and her voice falters all together.

Feeling a little crazy, he lies down next to her. There's a blanket or two between them, and she guides his arm to rest on the flat of her stomach. Her breathing slows, and he can feel his own calm in response. His eyes are tired. The bed is much more comfortable than the chair and sleep caresses him like a lover. He starts to let go, allowing his body to forget just who he's pressed against.

"And I didn't," she murmurs, rolling to face him. Helen's lips are close enough that he can see the chapped skin from her illness. "I had no idea."

Pulling the blanket up, she coughs into that, protecting his face. His hand's still on her hip and he keeps it there. Her body shivers for more breath and it takes a few moments of gasping for her to calm.

"I am sorry," she finishes, lowering the blanket and meeting his eyes. "Will, I am terribly sorry."

"For what?" he murmurs, rubbing his hand down her side. "You're allowed a sick day once every few decades you know."

Helen's half smile fades and he watches the muscles of her face relax into sleep. Will doesn't know if his presence is to banish the nightmares, or simply provide a link to the modern world. A century and a half of demons must make her exhausted mind fairly creative. She tenses again and he wonders if it's another fit of coughing. Instead, she curls up, pulling her knees up against his stomach.

"Ashley was happy," he whispers.

He watches her face, wishing he could let her keep this peace when she wakes up. "When you dream about her, dream sweet things. Dream about Ashley when she was a little girl. Remember washing her hair, teaching her to load a gun, those art projects you must have done when she was small. Think about how she lived." He wonders if she'd call him sentimental. Will wouldn't argue that, he's more emotional that she lets herself be; sometimes he thinks that's why he's here.

She stirs and he runs a hand down her cheek. "I don't think she'd like it that your dreams are cause you pain. I hate to say it, but she'd probably kick your ass if she knew."

He's about to close his eyes when he watches her smile. The movement is slow, almost as if it takes more energy than she has.

"Thanks," she murmurs. "She would."  


* * *

_Hour 29_  
"And it works," he announces, handing the computer to Helen before he circles her to check her lungs. "We vaccinated everyone in this Sanctuary who would benefit from a dose and I have the vaccine replicating. We should have enough for our jurisdiction by morning. Doses were couriered over to all the other facilities and it seems you've beaten the virus externally. "

He lifts the stethoscope to his ears and holds the cold metal disc against his neck until it warms. Sitting behind her, Will listens to her lungs as she looks over his work. They finally sound normal. "Your lungs are clear. Your fever's down. Only 38. I may not be the great Helen Magnus, but I think you'll be normal in a few hours."

"Thank you Will," she turns towards him, face just centimetres away. "I must admit I almost regret that I will end up missing the end of the epic tale of Frodo," she assures him with a smile. "I would like to see him defeat Sauron and save Middle Earth."

"I can loan you the book," he says, shrugging before he realises just how close he is to her naked skin. The dressing gown is thin and he reaches right underneath it. It's just the two of them and the bed. He's a breath away from being pressed against her and Helen doesn't even seem to mind. If she even notices with the computer in front of her.

"I might read it faster if I just wait until I'm ill again, I'm afraid," Helen answers with another sigh. This one's heavier and he remains on the bed, saving her from having to meet his eyes right away. "Even if it is another decade. I'm sorry to have put you through this, Will. I do worry that you've made it harder on yourself than need be by hovering over me."

"I'm a Hindenburg," Will says, rolling his eyes and slipping out of bed. "At least, according to Henry." A few months ago, Ashley would have been making the joke and he catches the darkness in Helen's eyes. She thought it too. Nether of them mention it. They rarely bring up her name. Ashley is remembered in moments of silence stolen from the conversation.

Helen squeezes his hand before it's out of reach. "You make an excellent nursemaid, young William."

Shaking his head at himself, he accepts the compliment. "Thanks." Heading for the door, Will pauses. She seems to be back; composed, controlled and calm as she looks over her work. "I really am glad you're feeling better."

_Hour 42_  
"I hope you'll forgive the intrusion," she begins, smiling that damn enigmatic smile at him as she stands from his bed. Magnus is dressed in a brilliant blue gown, hands folded primly in her lap, hair piled neatly on her head and something heavy and brilliant glinting blue around her neck. "When I went back to my work today, I'm afraid it slipped my mind to thank you." She toys with the folds of her dress, arranging it as neatly as a portrait.

"So you're here?" he asks stupidly.

"I'm asking you to dinner," Helen answers, smiling radiantly. "I would have simply told you to meet me in the entryway at nine in fancy dress, but I thought a demonstration would make it easier for you to match the dress code."

He has to keep licking his lips; he can barely swallow. "Yeah, this works. I-" he stumbles over words as his brain runs through his available clothing. "-should have a suit--"

"Inside your closet, hanging on the left," Magnus promises, standing from his bed as her gown swishes around her. The tight bodice exposes more of her breasts then he's ever seen without a defibrillator in hand. He can barely look away from her long enough to make sure he still has a closet.

That damn smile crosses her face before she speaks, "intimacy comes in many forms Will. What we've experienced, what you were all too willing to throw yourself into, could be a kind of friendly intimacy, even something that flirted with a familial relationship. Both of those relations insist that I thank you properly," Helen finishes, passing just near enough that he can smell her perfume. "I'll be in the library."

"Right," he says, pointing at his closet. "I'll just get dressed and meet you."

"Excellent." Her perfume hangs in the air like the ghost of something incredible. Will shuts his bedroom door and heads for the closet. He has a suit, for funerals in the police department, not for dinners with someone who has state dinners. He opens the closet and tears his polo shirt off over his head. Hanging just inside is an impeccably tailored suit, complete with a neatly cut shirt. It definitely wasn't there that morning.

Grabbing the hangers, he takes it out and lays it down on the bed. The craftsmanship is exquisite. It's way ahead of his salary, ahead of what he would even look at on his own. He spends half a moment wondering if it'll fit and then remembers who bought it. She's put his DNA back together, of course Helen could fit a suit.

Will dresses quickly, fiddling with the waistcoat that almost seems more Tesla's style than his. He has faith and avoids the mirror until he has everything on. His cuffs are still open, Will's not even sure if he owns cufflinks. He spends a moment, then decides Magnus must have a plan.

Presenting himself in the library doorway for inspection, he sees her approval in her smile. She looks him up and down, Will can feel her eyes and it does something to his stomach.

Helen nods once, approvingly. "James has always been right about you. You clean up respectably." Setting down her book, she waves him over. "I have something for your cuffs, if you'll allow me."

Holding out his arms, Will watches as a pair of silver cufflinks emerge from her handbag. Helen expertly fixes them, tugs his sleeves down, pulls his waistcoat up, straightens his collar and finally smiles proudly.

"Old habits," she offers and then points down at his cufflinks. "I thought you might like to have something of the 19th century of your very own. These were a favourite pair of James' and he left them to me. I believe he would have approved of you taking ownership of them."

"Thanks," he says, lifting his wrist to examine them. The silver is engraved with a beautiful coat of arms he doesn't recognise.

"Allow me," she takes his hand and moves his eye to the inner curve on his left wrist. "To James," Helen reads, "you great blighter, with my respects, Arty."

"They're not," Will gapes, chuckling because she's definitely just trying to see how gullible he is. "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle did not have these engraved."

"I assure you they are entirely genuine," Helen promises, offering him her arm as she straightens her skirts behind her. "Arthur had the greatest respect for James, though they frequently argued about characterisation. I apologise that I did not have time to find you something of your own. I do believe these have a history to them that you appreciate."

Her hand wraps around his arm and Will feels different. He's not even sure how he can place it, but her arm is around his, he's dressed and they're on their way to dinner. Even if she's orchestrated every moment of it. In the entryway, on their way to the car and their waiting chauffeur, Helen pauses.

"One more thing," she lifts a small flower from one of the arrangements and tucks it into his buttonhole. "For luck."

"That I'll need?" he asks, licking his lips. Hers are perfect. She's picked a deep shade of red lipstick and it's hard to believe that yesterday he was so worried about how ill she looked. Her eyes are bright, and though she's still pale, she's controlled again.

"We all need a little luck," she promises, taking his arm again as they walk towards the car. He can't stop wondering how many times she's done this: how many dresses she's worn, how many fascinating, influential people have sat in the car next to her and marveled at her brilliance.

Helen's knee touches his, and a shiver runs through them as they wind through the city. "Penny for your thoughts?" she asks, leaning back and pulling her shawl around her shoulders.

Looking at her smooth skin, Will has to lift his eyes, again, from her décolletage. "I was wondering if you've done this enough that it bores you. If it ever all starts to blend together."

"You rarely bore me," Helen offers and he can swear she moves her leg against hers. "I find your insight refreshingly different from my own. Your methods, though not as unorthodox as mine, help balance my theories, which even I must admit have become set in the last century or so."

"Really?" he asks in surprise. "I can't picture you asking for a second opinion."

She sighs and the corner of her mouth twists up. "Given enough time, the probability of everything rises." Leaning up, she takes his hand and the familiarity of it surprises him. "Even me asking for help."

"I'm just glad you're okay," Will assures her, looking into her eyes. "Had me worried for awhile there, mostly when you actually enjoyed my dramatic interpretation."

She chuckles, looking down at their hands and smiling patiently. "You were a very welcome distraction," she assures him as the car comes to a stop. "I despise being ill, and having someone there to make sure time didn't crawl to a halt while I was attempting to cough up my lung tissues is something I am deeply grateful for."

He opens and closes his mouth, still not comfortable with being thanked, and finally just nods. "Anytime."

The Big Guy opens her door, letting her out first. Will starts to get out of his own, but she's too quick. Helen's standing on the sidewalk, waiting for him while he gets out of the car. She could easily be a print ad in a magazine for a timeless photo shoot. Once again, Helen takes his arm, firmly in her Victorian mannerisms.

She leads him into an old stone building, nearly as old as the Sanctuary itself, and into a gilt and brass elevator. Her heels are silent on the carpet and Will holds her arm close to his side. He's almost surprised that she doesn't resist him. The elevator carries them up and finally opens into a quiet marble lobby.

"Avant l'aurore," Helen announces as they're ushered in by a young woman clad only in her own purple fur. "It's a little known, very exclusive restaurant that caters specifically to the Abnormal elite."

He glances around, "And you have a permenent table reserved by the window over the river?" Will only half-teases. If he'd come in any of his own clothes, he'd be underdressed but the suit she chose is adequate.

Helen draws up her skirt as she sits and nods to the waiter for drinks. Her table, marked with a neat card and her name, is in one of the far corners, near the thick glass windows out over the city.

"I prefer looking at the lights," she answers as she takes the chair with her back to the room. Surprised, Will allows himself to be led to the chair that gives a view of the entire clientele. His quizzical look makes her smile.

"They're so bright in this century," she explains about the lights. Her eyes flick past him and regard the room. "I thought you might like having a view of the room. I believe you are quite capable of watching my back through dinner."

Between the orange birdlike woman, the man who seems to be on fire yet poses no danger to the table cloth, a number of human-appearing people with minor variations, and the tentacled creatures in the background, he almost needs her beauty to drag him away.

"I should have known that the Abnormal world wouldn't all be cloak and dagger," he sighs, shaking his head in wonder.

"I believe the reason most organised crime syndicates and shadow organisations have restaurants simply so their odd schedules and lifestyle will not preclude them from enjoying the delights of gastronomy," she proclaims, lifting her full glass of bubbling champagne and directing his attention towards his with her hand.

Will feels the cool stem of the crystal against his palm and a heat tickle his stomach. He waits for her to toast, following the skin of her arm with his eyes all the way up to her mouth. Her freckles are visible and he traces the tiny spots all the way up her shoulder.

"To patience," she offers coyly.

"And the patient who didn't try mine nearly as much as you feared?" he finishes for her, putting the words in her mouth to make her smile.

"Precisely," Helen agrees, beaming at him over the crystal. "With my thanks."

* * *

 

_Hour 43_  
Helen's fork drags silently across her plate, carefully lifts the last of the rich chocolate and raspberry sauce before she digs it into the cake between them. She's been trying to get him to eat more of his fair share, and though Will would happily devour the dessert on his own, resisting her is nearly as delicious as the sauce. He so rarely gets to stand up for a little thing. Things go Helen's way, and he goes along until something strikes him. It's been that way for over a year.

She leans closer still, careful hold her fork over her hand so that nothing is lost. Helen's eyes glint wickedly and she pauses with the fork in front of his lips. "I'll resort to the airplane sounds that worked on Ashley if need be." The mention of her daughter brings a darkness to her eyes, but miraculously her smile remains.

Chuckling gives him a mouth full of cake, and Will shakes his head, chewing before he can speak. "I'm almost tempted, just to hear the impression. Especially in that dress."

"I've never let costume stop me before," she taunts, splitting the last bite of cake into two. "If we finish this, perhaps I'll let you see what else this dress is good for."

Half a second spent imaging the dress sliding off her naked skin is enough for him to miss her taking the smaller bit of cake and leaving him the larger. "I wouldn't even be able to guess--"

"They still teach basic skills of civilisation, such as dancing, don't they?" Helen asks with a twinkle in her eye. "I'm sure you're a little rough around the edges, but I believe I could make a suitable partner out of you. Giving free reign and the right pair of shoes."

He eats his cake quickly, and looks around the room. There's no place to dance so he cocks his head and raises an eyebrow. "Some other time?" he asks, wondering if this, whatever this is, leads to something afterward.

"The night is still young," Helen teases him and waves for the cheque. "I must be working you too hard if you think that dinner is all that composes a night out. Perhaps I'll still be able to surprise you." Payment involves the signing of her perfect signature and Will manages to beat her getting to his feet. Circling the table, he waits behind her chair and she unexpectedly beams at him when he hands her the shawl from the back of it. "Thank you, Will."

They share arms again on the way down, and this time, she lets him open the door for her. For a moment, standing in front of the car, he's close enough to kiss her. He thinks about it so vividly he wonders if she can read it on his face.

The Sanctuary is quiet and still when they return. Helen leaves her shawl in the cloakroom and waves him inward to one of the drawing rooms. "I hope your shoes are clean," she asks him as she heads for the ancient Victrola in the corner of the room. It's a little younger than Helen, but she seems more in tune with it than a CD player.

Will looks down and examines his shoes, just to be safe. He's wearing the shoes she left with the suit. Soft black leather shined to a perfection he's never going to achieve again looks up at him as if daring him to dance. Will looks over when she clears her throat. Helen points at her own feet and lifts her skirts. Her shoes are much more elaborate and the spiked heels are obviously going to make sure he learns quickly.

"As I said, I hope they covered the social graces, like dancing, in your secondary school," Helen hopes, reaching for his hand.

"Right," he sighs and gives her his hand. "We did. One semester. In gym. We were all terrible." Her skin is pleasantly warm instead of fevered and he's relieved that she's recovering so well. "Please remember I don't mean to step on your feet."

"Of course not," Helen agrees with a smile as she arranges his hands. One of his hands is on her back, nearly touching the skin left bare by the dress. The other hand is wrapped in hers and she pulls him close to her chest once she has their hands arranged to her satisfaction. "Now, in the waltz, you'll let me follow you. The only other music I have here is the foxtrot and if we try that, I might try to lead."

He smirks and she rolls her eyes. They share the idea of how likely it is that she'll end up leading him around instead of following as she's attempting to do.

"We shall have to stick with the former until we get the pacing of each other," she finishes.

Helen smells of something subtle and floral. Will can't quite name it and he can feel her hair touch his cheek. The curls she's left down are lose and in heels she's equal to his height. The music seems scratchy and far away. Helen is a warm, solid presence in his arms and that seems to steal the rest of the room from his notice.

He manages the waltz, but he assumes he lacks proper Victorian decorum. Helen's foot nudges his once or twice, making sure the steps he takes are accurate.

"Lift your arm," she suggests with a nudge. "Straighten your back, then lift your arm like this," she slowly walks him through a turn that changes the position of their arms. "Not entirely Victorian, but I think the positions have definitely had some improvements through the years."

"Again, please," he asks, trying to get the feel of the turn into his arms. Helen leads him slowly through it, drifting on memory of something past. He knows that look in her eyes, but he likes that she seems content, even peaceful with the memory.

"Now," she begins, patiently turning him back into the original position. "We travel around the room, you come towards me and I retreat."

"That's an odd turnabout," he quips, amused by the sudden flush in her cheeks. It isn't really all that different then a part of their relationship. She provides information, and lets him come to her. He gets a little closer and she retreats into herself.

Helen's smile remains but she seems to be fighting with something behind her eyes. "Ideally, you don't advance any further than I can step back and we stay balanced. Although there is a lead, dancing well requires that we be in sync with each other and treat each other as equals."

They circle the room, her dress swishing around her feet and her heels making soft sounds on the floor. Helen guides him through the turn and to his surprise, it comes out well. A few measures later, he tries it again and they falter. He's certain it's him who made the error, but when she ends up in his arms, pressed tightly against his chest, Will's mind explains calmly that she turned in. Helen's mistake put her in his arms.

Instead of moving back to a safe distance, Helen remains steady against him. He can feel her heart beating close to his. She's near enough that it's surreal. Her head tilts towards his, and finally, in one of the most impulsive decisions of his life, he kisses her. Helen's mouth meets him. Her lips are soft, more yielding than he expected, and she enthusiastically returns the kiss.

In this moment, the scratch of the record player, the crispness of his new suit and the hint of her perfume fade away into the background. The only thing he's concentrating on is the flesh of her body and the heat of her mouth. The kiss finishes with her cheek against his as he catches his breath. Helen still doesn't move away, but he can feel her sigh. That sigh ends their moment.

"Will," she begins and he swallows. Will starts to release her, preparing an apology even though he hasn't seen dismay in her face. "Don't," she asks, surprising him. His thoughts run together like a crashing train and he can't form words.

"I do not engage in traditional relationships," she explains, pulling back a hand's distance from him. "I neither have the time, the inclination nor the energy to indulge myself with romantic ideas."

He waits for her to finish and as soon as she pauses, his words are quick out of his mouth. "I am ready to apologise. I got carried away and I--"

This time she kisses him, wrapping fingers around the back of his neck and exploring his lips with her tongue. Then she's in his mouth, kissing him with a kind of skill he didn't know existed but almost feels like he should expect.

"Will," she speaks so close to his lips that she's almost whispering into his mouth. "This is not what you want."

"You are," he contradicts her, keeping his grip on her shoulders. He reaches for her hair, hesitating before he strokes a wisp of hair out of her face. "Wasn't it your dear Albert who said if we got the right gravitational field, time means nothing at all?"

Helen looked down at her breasts then up at him wickedly. "I doubt you can claim gravity is the force which led you to kiss me," she says. He can see through her shaky smile. "Truly cheeky." Her body stiffens as she releases her grip on his arm. "Thank you."

"Dinner was incredible," he responds politely, taking a step back and forcing his heart to stop racing. If they're walking away, he can respect that. He'll have too.

"What you did," she begins with genuine gratitude, "Will, I could have never asked you to take care of me."

"You don't have to," he insists, forgetting to keep his hands away. He catches the bare skin of her shoulder and it's cool against his hand. "It's why I'm here, isn't it? Resident shrink with an over-nurturing streak and an addiction to a dreadful hot beverage."

Helen's hand covers his, sliding down to grab his wrist. "I imagine sometimes it would be easier for you if I would ask for what I need," she says and he catches the hint of sorrow in her voice. She's made him spend a lot of time guessing.

"I'll learn," he insists. He is getting better at reading her. Though she keeps her distance, every once in awhile, he can pick up on the hints that she wants him to close it. Helen's been keeping herself locked away, even from Ashley, for so long that her signals are as enigmatic as the rest of her. They're already locked in a dance much more complicated than the waltz.

"I won't ask you to," she shakes her head. "I can't ask that of you as well."

Even ss he argues, Will's objection surprises himself. "Helen-"

Her eyebrows loft aristocratically but she allows him to finish. Will could count the freckles on her shoulder, but he brings his gaze back to her face.

"I'm not going demand the restructuring of our relationship because you kissed me-"

She interrupts, "I believe you began-"

He lifts to ask her to let him finish. "I'm not going to walk away from--" he can't find the right word until she lifts her hand to cup his chin. "You believe in infinite possibilities, unending variation; surely there's some reality where-" he smiles gently, "-I get to kiss you again."

Helen drags out the silence but holds his eyes with hers. His fingers run over her arm, heading for her hair. Helen leans closer, moving her lips closer to his. Will's staccato breath barely gives him time to think. Not that he needs any. Closing the last of the distance, he simply kisses her. To his great surprise, instead of resisting him and taking over the kiss, Helen falls into it, letting him lead. Her hands creep across his chest, finally digging into his shoulders.

Will can hear his blood rushing in his ears. Smiling at him, Helen takes a step back, folding her hands demurely on her stomach.

"Goodnight Will," she dismisses him, still smiling as if she knows an answer he's just not aware of.

He falters, still feeling like he's lost his breath. "Goodnight," he replies shyly. Turning away from her, feeling the flush of blood in his face, he walks nearly to the door before he realises he's headed the wrong way.

"I live this way," he says, waving his hand pathetically towards the other door.

"You do," Helen agrees. "I believe we were there earlier." The lilt in her voice is cruelly lyrical.

"Tomorrow?" he asks, trying to slip back into the person he was ten minutes ago. He can write it off into memory as a few moments of insanity. Will can work through that. They'll both forget about it.

"If you like," she says, still smiling. He tries not to read into it, but there's something that gives him hope. "However, I've given my butler the night off. We'd have to cook."

It takes him a beat to react. "I meant the meeting, nine am." She meant another date, assuming that was what they had just had. Will didn't even know how to place that in his mind. He's not even sure if he heard it correctly.

"Yes," Helen nods her head. "I'll make sure there's some of that dreadful sludge for you and everything."

"As much as it pains you, you always do." He's just going to keep staring at her and the way the light reflects off her jewellery unless he finds a way to escape. He has to think, or stop over thinking and just not look like an idiot for a moment or two. "Goodnight, again."

"Goodnight Will," she says softly, choosing a book from the shelves.

His hand is on the door when he realises it was his move. Turning back, he surprises her up from her book. "I can make enchiladas. I picked up a wicked recipe for mole sauce the last time you sent me to Mexico."

Helen's dress sighs as she pulls up her feet onto the sofa. "Then it's a date." She smiles down at her book before looking up at him.

"Okay." He agrees. "Okay," Will repeats softer to himself. He reaches for the door knob and the safety of his room but her sneeze cuts through the library. Turning around quickly, almost back in his old panic, Will stares at her as she helplessly sneezes again.

"Dust," Helen explains as she holds the book away from her to protect it. "There's no need for alarm."

Will sighs, not really sure if he even wants to put thought into the possibility it's not just dust. "You know where to find me. I'll keep 'Lord of the Rings' handy, just in case, " he finishes, listening to her amused laughter as he shuts the door. Leaning against the wall, Will toys with his cufflinks.

"Dust," he sighs, shaking his head. His heart feels too light for his chest. They have tomorrow. He pulls the tiny white flower from his coat and smiles at it. Maybe he did have a little luck after all.

\- finis -


End file.
